Tales of a Sentient Skull
by Amiyrasmom
Summary: Not part of the Honey 'Verse. Sherlock needs a friend. This is an idea I had about Sherlock's skull and John. Anything else would be giving things away. Rating is for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not mine…still. Geez. You'd think people would know this by now.**

**A/N: So I've read a few stories where Sherlock dreamed John into life or drew him to life or something else along those lines. This is my take on an idea like that. Skull John to Man John. Enjoy. Oh and duh, it's an AU. And everyone is OOC, not terribly but somewhat.**

**Lonely?**

Sherlock Holmes was lonely. Wait. What? Had he actually had that thought? The thought that he was lonely? Ridiculous. _Delete._

Sherlock shook his head to clear the echoes of that ridiculous thought before again lifting the dropper to the Petri dish he was experimenting with. There was no room in his life for such distracting feelings. He wasn't lonely. He was quite happy all by himself. He didn't need anyone.

The skin in the dish sizzled slightly as he added one drop too many and Sherlock scowled. Damn his mind anyway. Why was it choosing today to run amok? He had to finish this experiment; a woman's life depended on it!

I am lonely. Again? What? Impossible. _Delete._

This time the thought had the temerity to come while he was at a crime scene. He wasn't lonely and he most certainly wasn't alone. Lestrade was leaning on the wall across from him and Anderson was right at his side blathering at him about something though he wasn't actually listening to the idiot.

He scowled to himself. He needed to focus. He didn't have time for these distractions. He had to concentrate there was something he was missing; what was it? Ah! There the fiber on the man's cuff. Right, time to solve Lestrade's case for him, again.

Loneliness is a state of being alone, companionless. Alone. Not again! I am alone because I wish to be! I don't like idiots and everyone is an idiot! _Delete._

Angelo's was crowded with people. He was the only one sitting at a table by himself. He wanted it that way though, he didn't like distractions. Though it would be interesting if he had someone to listen to the deductions he was making in his head.

Sherlock shook the thought off. No one wanted to hear what he had to say unless it was about a case. The Work was all that mattered and it was all he needed.

Sherlock Holmes needed a friend to relieve the loneliness. What? Why won't you delete? _Delete!_

Sherlock viciously threw the beaker he was holding at the wall and scowled as it started to eat through the wood. He was not lonely! He didn't need a friend! He needed a CT scan to find out what was wrong with his brain.

I need a friend. I do not! Bloody…_Delete!_

Sherlock sighed and rubbed at his forehead. Where had this idiotic thought come from in the first place? He was getting sick of this. The persistent thought resisted all his attempts at deletion and distraction. He did not need a friend. He didn't need anyone. He could be far more stubborn than this thought, he had to be. No one would want to be his friend anyway.

He rubbed at his head again refusing to acknowledge the pang in his chest.

A friend. A companion. Someone to talk to. Someone to share things with. To stop this feeling of loneliness. No! I am not lonely. _Delete! Delete! Delete!_

The thought was now accompanied by a stab of pain in the chest. Sherlock rubbed at his chest right above the beat of his heart. This was becoming intolerable. He shook off the pain and the thought of another CT scan or maybe an MRI and sipped at his tea in the lovely, quiet solitude of his flat.

What did it matter if the silence was beginning to wear on him? What did it matter if he would like for someone else to make his tea every once in a while? He scowled down at his cuppa and shook his head again. He was perfectly capable of making his own tea. He didn't need a friend.

I need a friend. _DELETE!_

But the thought would not delete. It persisted. It followed Sherlock Holmes around like a lost puppy. Always there with big, sad eyes and pleading whines. It was distracting and irritating. He had never had a friend before. Had no idea how to go about finding one but evidently his brain would not stop this infernal pestering until he'd done so.

How did a normal person find a friend? Not wanting anyone else to know of his lack of knowledge and not knowing what else to do he checked the internet. After all, cyberspace had everything.

For once it failed him. He wasn't a normal person and the ideas for finding friends were just so banal and boring. Find other people with common interests, have interest in their topics of conversation, go out with them to the cinema or plays or concerts or the pub. All of it useless and nothing that he liked to do. There had to be some other way to find a friend. But how? Experiment? No, that wouldn't work. Even he knew that experimenting to find a friend was useless and could be frankly dangerous.

Compile a list of useful traits for a friend to have, his brain supplied suddenly. Good idea. That would help. At least he'd know what to look for among the mass of people that inhabited the planet with him.


	2. The List

**Disclaimer: Ever wake up from a dream and think that it was real? Yeah me too. Unfortunately the man in my bed turned out to be my son…who isn't a man yet and definitely not Sherlock Holmes. Darn it! So I guess he still belongs to John and ACD and BBC and not me.**

**A/N: Sorry I'm still not British so any mistakes can only be blamed on my nationality. Or not. Let me know if I screwed up any British stuff. If the mistake isn't caused by nationality then it must be a typo and I want to know about those too. Enjoy the story.**

**The List**

Sherlock Holmes was a very logical man. A high-functioning sociopath. The downside, if it could be called that, to this was that he didn't understand emotions and he didn't understand people. To him they were all so boring. So in order to find the perfect friend, because anything less would be a waste of time, he made a list of necessary traits this mythical person would need to possess. It wasn't a long list but every item was of utmost importance for his friend.

_My Friend will be..._

_ Patient_

That one was extremely important which was why it was the first one on the list. Sherlock, never one to lie to himself even though he lied to everyone else, knew he could be a right terror when he wanted. And sometimes even when he didn't mean to be. So his friend needed to be very patient to put up with him.

He knew that trait would be hard to find. Lots of people claimed to be patient but they weren't. Just because they could stand in a queue for hours without becoming irritated didn't mean they could stand the silences he was sometimes overcome with. It also didn't mean they would accept his violin at all hours of the day and night.

Though his friend wouldn't need to live with him it would be a bonus if he did. And it had to be a male. Sherlock knew himself well enough to know that he would have no patience with a girl's primping in front of the mirror or a girl's hours of moaning about her love life or lack thereof. And a male was less likely to have problems with Sherlock being out at all hours with the Work and wouldn't nag at him about tidiness or eating or sleeping.

_Loyal_

Another important trait. Sherlock had quite a few enemies that would love to plant a spy near him. Not to mention Mycroft. No they had to be loyal to Sherlock before all others.

And Sherlock would be loyal to them as far as he could anyway. He swore to himself that if he ever found this person then he would not experiment on them unnecessarily. And he would do what he could to make sure they were comfortable around him.

It would be nice to have someone stick up for him, too. Someone who didn't see him as a freak or a psychopath and would tell everyone that they didn't.

_Of above average intelligence_

Another must have trait. Sherlock couldn't stand stupid people, even if that was 99.98% of the world. No, his friend must be one of the .02% that could at least hold an intelligent conversation. And wasn't named Mycroft Holmes.

A clone of his brother, there was a thought to give even him nightmares. Then an even more terrifying thought occurred to him. Intelligence was important so that he didn't have a friend like Anderson. An Anderson clone. Sherlock shuddered.

Anyone not named Anderson or Mycroft. He would accept nothing less.

_Able to fix a decent cup of tea_

Sherlock was as English as the next man and liked his tea. And tea always tasted better when someone else made it.

Sherlock had done several experiments on this subject and still could not figure out why that was. Still it would be nice to have tea on demand that he didn't have to make himself.

_A crack shot_

Because Sherlock had enemies. His friend had to be able to protect them both.

That meant he'd probably have to be a soldier of some kind or something along those lines. He could be a criminal but then Sherlock would have to hide him from Lestrade and that would defeat the purpose of having a friend. Maybe the son of a Mafia Don, but still that came with complications so soldier it would have to be.

Sherlock knew that soldiers weren't the only ones that could be crack shots but he'd rather not be in a situation where a good shot was needed and have his friend balk because he'd never shot someone before. A cop would work for that part too but some of Sherlock's more questionable methods of investigating would worry his friend if he was a good cop and a bad cop would be intolerable.

_Useful at crime scenes_

What good would having a friend be if he wasn't any help with the Work?

Really that one was almost a given. And nearly as important as patience.

_Straight but understanding of homosexuality_

Sherlock didn't want to deal with the emotional entanglements if his friend fell in love with him. Still he was bisexual himself, even if he didn't have sexual relations, and didn't want his friend to be disgusted with him for his choice in partners.

That would be intolerable and ruin their friendship before it ever had the chance to begin. It would just be wrong.

_Deceptive in appearance_

Sherlock wanted everyone else to overlook his friend so that when they were in danger one of them would be able to get them free. His enemies always watched him like a hawk.

He knew this might actually be the hardest of the traits to find. Look at Mycroft, he was a politician and he looked like a politician. Lestrade was a cop and he looked like a cop. Sherlock wanted a soldier who looked like a normal, boring idiot, not a soldier. Everything would just be easier that way.

Sherlock considered his list for a moment before huffing in frustration, crumpling the paper in his hand and throwing it across the room. He flopped backwards over the arm of the sofa and glared at the ceiling. There was no such person on the planet. This finding a friend business was harder than it looked. How did normal people do it?

He needed a distraction. Maybe Molly had those severed arms she'd promised him the last time he'd been to Bart's.


	3. The Lab

**Disclaimer: Tried to wish for Sherlock on a star last night…didn't work. Tried for John and Lestrade too…yeah they're not here either. Shoot! Need a new idea. So we've established that they aren't mine…much to my regret.**

**A/N: To Aina: Sure go ahead. Send me your e-mail and I'll send you the file. **

**To everyone else: So I don't actually know what happens to bodies that are unclaimed in real life and especially not soldiers that have died in a country not their own. I just needed a way for Sherlock to get a soldier's skull and this idea came to me. Hope it doesn't offend anyone and if it does I apologize. Let me know what you think.**

**The Lab**

Molly did indeed have the severed arms for him to experiment on. He whiled away a few happy hours playing with them and then Molly came back pushing a cart full of plastic boxes. Sherlock looked up interested. More limbs? Somehow he didn't think so. He gave them a critical glance and then frowned.

"Fifteen year old human remains, Molly? Whatever are they for? There's not much that I can do with bones."

Molly giggled like a school girl and Sherlock barely refrained from wincing at the sound. "You're so silly, Sherlock. These are the unclaimed remains that were shipped here from Afghanistan fifteen years ago. Their families never came for them for whatever reason."

If Sherlock felt a pang in his chest at this thought he never let it show. He studied the cart of boxes and then Molly again. "Ah," he finally said. "You're taking them to be buried in pauper's graves."

Molly nodded with a frown. "It's not fair but we've no choice. The military would only pay to bury the remains of those that were conclusively identified and claimed. These poor men haven't been and we haven't the storage space to keep them. They've all got headstones in the military cemetery but their bodies aren't there. It's sad in a way."

"Why? They're dead. I seriously doubt they are even aware of what has happened to their bodies. Why should they care where they're buried and why would you?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, Sherlock, I just do," Molly said. "Now I won't be gone long. Do you need anything while I'm out?"

An absolutely insane, wonderful idea occurred to him as he shook his head. How to implement it though? Molly laid her hands back on the cart to roll it back out the door and he opened his mouth to call her back when the telephone in the office rang. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as she hurried off to answer it and left him alone with the boxes of bones.

As soon as Molly was out of sight Sherlock dashed to the boxes, retrieved what he wanted, dashed back to his coat, put it in one of the pockets and was back by the arms by the time she came back.

"I'm off, Sherlock; I'll see you when I get back." Molly told him as she grabbed hold of the cart again.

"Actually Molly, I'm finished with these so I'll walk out with you." Molly looked in dismay at the mess of limbs. "I'll clean them up if you'd like to lock up." He offered uncharacteristically. He wanted her distracted so she wouldn't notice the bulge in his coat.

Predictably her eyes widened and then she nodded. "Thanks, Sherlock. That's really very sweet of you."

"Not a problem, Molly," Sherlock told her and cleaned up the arms while Molly locked the doors.

Sherlock's phone beeped as they walked towards the elevators. He pulled it out and checked it with a huff of irritation.

_What on earth do you need a skull for, Sherlock?_

_ -M_

Sherlock scowled and turned to go down a different hall from Molly. "I seem to have a meeting, Molly. I'll see you later."

"Oh, okay. Bye, Sherlock."

_You're the one that said I needed a friend._

_ -SH_

He grinned then and left the building to head back to his flat. In the cab his phone beeped again.

_I meant one of the human variety, Sherlock, and you know it!_

_ -M_

_ Then you should have specified as such._

_ -SH_

Sherlock grinned as he exited the cab in front of 221B Baker St. and dashed up the stairs to his new apartment. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," he called as he passed her door.

"Hello, Sherlock dear. My, you're in a cheerful mood today."

Sherlock stopped on the stair and smiled at her. "It's a beautiful day, Mrs. Hudson. Why shouldn't I be happy?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head gently at him and then smiled. "I'll put the kettle on and bring you some tea. Just this once mind, I'm your landlady not your housekeeper."

"Brilliant," he turned and rushed up the rest of the stairs. Once in the flat he threw himself down on the sofa and dug the soldier's skull out of his pocket holding it up before his face. "I believe I shall call you John."


	4. John the Skull

**Disclaimer: These characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC (i.e. Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss), not me…the jerks won't return my calls about selling the rights even though I offered cookies. Who turns down home-made cookies?**

**A/N: To the guests who reviewed the last chapter I thank you. There was one reviewer who asked whether John was alive or dead. All I can say to that is: Keep reading and you'll understand.**

**A few curse words in this chapter and some suggestive themes. Read on if you don't mind that and if you're reading my work then you must not because nearly all my stories are slash.**

**John the Skull**

John was a decent enough friend, Sherlock decided. He was quiet, didn't mind about the minor explosions or experiments in the flat, had no problem with Sherlock playing his violin at all hours and was always there to talk to. Best of all, Sherlock's enemies feared him and Mycroft couldn't buy him off. Though John didn't make tea and wouldn't go to the Tesco's for him but Sherlock could work around that.

_Er, Sherlock? What exactly was that?_

"Nothing at all, John. Not to worry. Just a small incident with a beaker."

_What happened?_

"Well, it exploded of course. Perhaps I added a bit too much sodium."

_Oh._

_ Sherlock, are you going to play all night?_

"Possibly. I'm trying to think, John. The answer is just out of my reach. I must think!"

_You could try Vivaldi. His compositions usually give your magnificent brain a jump start, you know?_

"Ah! Excellent. Of course!"

_Sherlock, I have no legs to walk to the Tesco's. Nor do I have arms to carry the groceries. Nor do I have a bank account seeing as I'm a skull. You know these things. _

"I do know, John. You could use my debit card. I wouldn't mind, you know? You are my friend."

_No, Sherlock you'll have to make your own tea. I have no fingers, remember?_

"Yes, John, of course I am aware of that fact. But I know that you'd make better tea than me. And, I'm busy."

_Yes, you're so busy lying around on the sofa, thinking. Am I just supposed to use my nonexistent magical powers to make you a pot of tea? Fat chance, mate. Didn't have magic powers when I was alive, don't have them now. If I did have magic powers I'd magic myself up a body._

Sherlock took John everywhere with him. The customers of Angelo's soon became used to seeing Sherlock with a cup of coffee or tea in one hand while he rattled off deductions to John. Angelo even went so far as to talk to John himself. It always gave Sherlock a little jolt of pleasure when other people acknowledged John.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. Table for two by the window, yes?"

"Yes, Billy, thank you."

"Good afternoon, Sherlock and John. What'll you have today? Tea? Coffee? We have a wonderful risotto today, if you'd like. On the house of course."

_I'll take the risotto and a coffee, Angelo. Thank you._

"John would like the risotto and a coffee and just tea for me, Angelo."

"Right. I'll get a candle for the table. Makes it more romantic. Your risotto will be ready in a moment, John."

_You want to share the risotto, Sherlock? Lord knows my eyes are bigger than my stomach these days._

No one found it the least bit strange when Sherlock snickered or when the risotto and both drinks disappeared.

Mrs. Hudson had acknowledged John from the very first and was always carting him off for tea parties. She would give him back readily enough when they were finished. Sherlock only wished she hadn't gotten John hooked on crap telly but it couldn't be helped now.

"Sherlock, I'm borrowing John, dear." She would tell the prone form of the world's only consulting detective and then swan out the door with John tucked under one arm chattering at him all the while.

"And Mrs. Turner, next door, you know, dear, the one with the married ones? She says that Lizzie can't possibly win the X Factor, but we both know she has a beautiful voice, don't we?"

_Lizzie not win? The woman's insane! Oh! It's the finals tonight, isn't it? I'll be late, Sherlock! Don't wait up but come get me if Lestrade comes by._

Donovan and Anderson were particularly appalled when they first met John while Lestrade only shook his head in a resigned way. All three of them soon accepted John though. Lestrade even asked after John when he wasn't in evidence. Sherlock would always dig John from his pocket and allow Lestrade to hold him while he worked. Donovan and Anderson would scowl but that was only because they wanted to talk to John and Sherlock wouldn't let them. John was _his_ friend. Lestrade understood this and would hand John over as soon as Sherlock imperiously held his hand out. It was the only reason Sherlock didn't mind Lestrade stealing John's attention for a little while.

"Body's in the next room, Sherlock. Where's John?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes but dug John out of his pocket and passed him over. "Don't tell him the footie scores, Lestrade. He doesn't need his already empty head cluttered with useless sports scores."

_Oh, come on! Greg you have to tell me. I need to know. Stop looking at Sherlock's arse, Anderson, you prat! My Sherlock._

"Anderson, if you spent as much time observing the scene as you do observing my bottom you'd have solved this one already."

Anderson spluttered. Greg chuckled under his breath. "How about that then, John? Now then, Man U won their match last night."

_Really? Great! What was the score?_

"I said DON'T tell him the footie scores, Lestrade. Give him here! John, do you see the marks on her neck?"

_Duh. Vampire attack._

"Made to simulate a vampire attack, idiot."

John blew a raspberry at his best friend. _You're the idiot but an amazing one. Your deductions constantly amaze me._

Mycroft continued to try to get Sherlock to give up his new friend and find a human to connect with for a few months before he too gave up. Sherlock grinned smugly the first time Mycroft told John hello, er, good-bye actually.

"Sherlock, really, a skull is not good company."

_Oi! I am too, you overweight political windbag. I'm the best company Sherlock's ever found._

"How's the diet then, Mycroft? You've put on three pounds since last I saw you. Those biscuits get you every time."

_No, it was the cake, Sherlock. Don't you see the crumbs?_

"Ah, my mistake, cake and biscuits."

"Good afternoon, Sherlock, John." Mycroft suddenly looked as though he'd swallowed his tongue and Sherlock grinned mercilessly when Mycroft slammed the door on his way out.

Suddenly Sherlock couldn't imagine his life without John. John had become such an integral part of his life, the Work and everything else that it was as though he had always been present. John's voice sounded in his head at so many things that it had become natural to hear it chuckling at some insult to Anderson or scolding him for getting shot at by suspects or nearly blowing up the flat but scolding in such a way that wasn't really scolding.

_Really, Sherlock, a head? In the fridge? Food goes in the fridge not body parts, though you rarely eat so I guess it's understandable that you'd be confused. Just don't expect me to eat anything when there is a head dripping blood and other fluids on it. Actually just don't expect me to eat._

_That was a good insult, Sherlock. A black hole that sucks the intelligence from the whole of the room! I haven't laughed that hard in years. _

_Sherlock! You need to stop risking your life! Have you lost ALL of your common sense? Bullets hurt! A lot. You're an idiot, Sherlock._

_Bloody Hell, Sherlock! You blew up the kitchen table! Mrs. Hudson is going to have a tanty. Your ears will be ringing for hours and I will laugh. I told you not to add the glucose to that particular combination but you never listen. Are you hurt?_

Lately John's monologue in his head had become slightly embarrassing. Well, it would have if anyone other than him could hear it. What had started as an offhand comment about his arse had become an almost constant appreciation of his body.

_That shirt truly brings out your eyes, Sherlock. _

_No, not those pants! Anderson will drool everywhere, granted I will too but I haven't any saliva so I'm okay to drool over you. _

_You have the most beautiful hands, Sherlock. I adore how versatile and large they are._

_If I had a tongue I would worship your feet for hours._

Really it was a bit distracting but having never heard such blatant admiration for not only his body but his mind Sherlock didn't mind very much.

Sherlock had never wanted or needed a friend until he'd found him. John was nearly everything he'd ever wanted. If only he was alive he would be perfect.


	5. John the Man

**Disclaimer: I got a light up rose and a letter (a very nice letter from someone close to me) for Valentine's Day. But…my significant other did not get me what I really wanted. No Sherlock, no John, no Greg, no Alan Rickman, no Richard Dean Anderson. :( Oh, well. They're still not mine.**

**A/N: I wasn't going to post this until tomorrow and then I realized that it's Valentine's Day and you all deserve a gift. So here you go: the last chapter of Tales of a Sentient Skull. Enjoy!**

**John the Man**

"Good morning, John," Sherlock called his normal morning greeting, used only when he actually had slept the night before, to his friend.

"Morning Sherlock," was the instant reply. "Anything on for today?"

"I thought I'd finish that experiment on the toes. And Molly has some new fingers at the lab if you'd like to go have a look with me."

"Do I ever not want to go with you?" John asked. "You should be nicer to Molly you know? She has a crush on you. Not that I blame her, you are very attractive. Lord knows that I'd jump you if I had limbs or any of the other necessities used for sex."

Sherlock let John's rambling fade to a buzz in the back of his mind. It was a kind of soothing background noise while he finished his experiment.

"Done," Sherlock announced as he jotted the last few notes into his lab book. "Come along, John let's go visit Molly." Sherlock turned around to collect his friend and dropped his lab book in surprise.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?" Asked the man seated in the chair that Sherlock had bought for John. The man that looked like Sherlock had imagined John would. The man that sounded exactly like the John in his head. "Sherlock? You've gone pale…well, paler anyway. What is it?"

"John?" Sherlock whispered.

"Yes?" John answered.

"You're…you're real," Sherlock shook his head, blinked his eyes and then strode over and poked John in the chest.

"Ow!" John complained and then his face paled and he looked down at his chest. "I have a chest," he murmured and reached up to rub at the spot Sherlock had poked. "I have arms. How?" He turned pleading hazel eyes up to Sherlock.

"I've gone mad," Sherlock said. "I think."

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson called out from the stairwell. "Are you awake?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," John answered before he thought about it. "Oh, right, she can't hear me as I don't exist…well, I thought I didn't."

"Good," Mrs. Hudson opened the door. "I'm off to spend the weekend with my sister. John, be a dear and don't let Sherlock burn down the house while I'm gone won't you?" She leaned over the chair and gave him a peck on the head. Then turned and left the room.

"She could see you," Sherlock said.

"Mrs. Hudson is batty, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Come along. Molly isn't and if she sees you then we'll know for sure."

"All right," John nodded and stood up. "Wow, I'm shorter than I remember."

"You're just the height I thought you'd be," Sherlock disagreed. "Where did that jumper come from?"

"My gran knitted it for me just before I shipped out."

"Oh." Sherlock paused and stared. "How did it get on you?"

"Haven't the foggiest."

Half an hour later, John was chatting pleasantly with Molly while Sherlock pretended to stare into a microscope. Molly hadn't been at all shocked when the two men had strode into the lab side by side and had only greeted them with a pleasant "Good morning, John, Sherlock." Then she'd pulled John to the side to ask him about some IT guy she had met that morning. Sherlock's phone beeped but he ignored it. It beeped again and he ignored it again.

"Oh for Christ's sake, answer your phone, Sherlock," John reprimanded.

"Busy," Sherlock told him curtly. "You answer it."

"Fine," John huffed while Molly giggled. "Where is it?"

"Where it always is, my coat pocket."

John fished the mobile out and checked the messages. "It's Greg," he announced. "There's been a fourth suicide and he wants us."

"Very well, lovely to see you Molly," he swirled away, wide grin stretching his face. He'd known there'd be another.

The Yarders could see John too and interacted with him as though he'd always been alive.

"Evening, Dr. John, Freak," Sally greeted them. "Lestrade's inside waiting."

"Thank you, Sally," John said politely.

"Neither of you better contaminate anything," Anderson warned.

"Do we ever?" John shot back. "And keep your eyes to yourself this time, Anderson. Sherlock has better taste."

"Play nice, John," Lestrade said tiredly. "Did you catch the match last night?"

"No, Sherlock had a visit from Mycroft yesterday so he took apart the telly again."

"Too bad, it was a good one."

"John! Come tell me what you think!" Sherlock called.

"Tell me about the match at the pub later?" John asked Lestrade before joining Sherlock by the body.

"Don't I always?" Lestrade laughed. "It's my turn to buy the drinks I think."

That seemed to be the end of it. Sherlock didn't plan to dig too deeply into how his skull had become a man; he didn't want to lose his friend back into silence. Besides, John was an excellent kisser and everyone knows that skulls do not have lips with which to kiss, nor do they have other parts that are necessary to a romantic relationship.


End file.
